


Yet soul be sure

by cicak



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Werewolves, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Hannibal is an equinox werewolf, a man who lives as a wolf for half the year, and as a human until the next equinox. But the wolf is not the monster.</p><p>Written for Hannibal ACCA 2014</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 22nd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cognomen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/gifts).



> Written for Hannibal ACCA 2014 for cognomen. Prompt: A dark little werewolf thing - any characters though if it's pairing then Hannigram
> 
> Title from Walt Whitman's text for Ralph Vaughan Williams' 'A Sea Symphony', which can be found [here](http://snarkdreams.com/brett/poems/seasym.html)
> 
>  
> 
> _Yet soul be sure the first intent remains, and shall be carried out,_  
>  Perhaps even now the time has arrived...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its tail was wagging but the eyes looked dangerous. The teeth were larger and in a different formation from a typical canine. It looks like a prehistoric predator wearing an expensive fur coat, mimicking the behaviours of man’s best friend.

It was the end of a long day, and the nearly full moon hung in the sky as bright as the sun, making the world blurry at the edges in a way that is both reassuring of happier times and yet deceptive. The streetlamps in and around Wolf Trap were never the most accurate or carefully maintained, to the chagrin of its few inhabitants, but high beam headlights, quick reflexes and a heavy dose of luck usually kept the roads clear of unlucky animals and dead dreams. Except on nights like this, where the huge, orange moon, bathed everything in a supernatural light, and everyone could see fit to pretend.

 

Will had learned the hard way not to slip too far into the autopilot of driving, especially as the seasons turn and the animals begin their long walk to warmer places. This time of year always makes him think of doing it himself - packing up and disappearing to a warm savannah when the snow gets above ankle deep and his arms ache from shovelling his car out every morning. It is either that or curl up and give into the urge to hibernate that remains despite never being evolutionarily proven, to curl up like a bear surrounded by food and wait patiently for the warmth to return.

 

He had spoken of this with Hannibal back in the spring, just as the trees began to creep into full bloom. Hannibal had said from the start that he always went away for the summer, preferring somewhere cooler and less oppressively humid than the long evenings of a Maryland summer. He would be gone completely until the autumn. Will took his hinting at teaching at a curiously non-specified organisation as cover for something more salacious. A lover perhaps, or a secret family. A second career as a kept man on a yacht, or perhaps just sailing around the world on one of his own, nothing but human ingenuity between himself and the horizon.

 

There is movement on the road and Will slams on the brakes when a flash of pale fur and bright red eye shine is caught in the headlamps. The animal doesn’t move, even when the car comes close enough to ruffle its long fur. It stands there, unafraid and incurious, but unable to move a muscle. To the uninitiated it looked like it could be one of those breeds that evolved near the Arctic Circle to assist man in his futile fight against the elements, all muscle and mindless endurance. This animal could have been that opportunistic helpmeet, but Will is sure that this particular dog would have eaten the poor sap the moment the pork fat and salt fish ran out. It had a wide head with a pointed muzzle haloed with long, shaggy fur around the ruff of the neck and a great plume of hair on the chest, contributing to its regal look and justification for its proud demeanour. It was ghostly pale for the most part, but with brown eyes and some dark grey touches to its fur. The animal stood as tall as his hip but not because it had a large skeleton - the height came from muscle cramped into too small a frame and having nowhere to go but up.

 

Its tail was wagging but the eyes looked dangerous. The teeth were larger and in a different formation from a typical canine. It looks like a prehistoric predator wearing an expensive fur coat, mimicking the behaviours of man’s best friend.

Part of Will wants to get in the car and try and get away as fast as possible. His rational head says “it’s dark and lit entirely by headlights. This is a dog, or else some kind of wolf or coyote hybrid, but it’s still a dog. It’s tame. It’s lost. It looks hungry. Bring it home.”

 

His heart says “the other dogs will know. It can go to the shelter tomorrow if they don’t get on.”

 

His autonomic nervous system says “DANGER DANGER DANGER RUN AWAY HIT IT WITH YOUR CAR SHOOT IT WITH YOUR GUN THAT IS NOT TO BE TOUCHED IT IS A BAD THING”.

 

He barely even hesitates before he opens the door. The beast jumps neatly into the back seat, tucks its monstrous paws under its body and sits primly, waiting for Will to start the car. He meets its eyes in the rear-view mirror and swears that they look human.

 

* * *

 

 

He is asked by Jack to attend the annual briefing of the start of what the tabloids call ‘Ripper Season’.

 

'We know the Chesapeake ripper only attacks during the winter months. We suspect he has seasonal work somewhere else rather than being continuously employed in the area.'

 

Jack goes on to repeat the tired profile done by the top FBI profiler, a tired man with a basement office who Will met once at a conference and was bored at for 45 minutes about the meaning of the way he tied his shoelaces. “Official opinion is that he is a low class transient with local links. He targets a wide range of people, both men and women, so we suspect he has an opportunistic job. Car mechanic, cab driver, shop worker - the kind of person to meet a cross class group of people day to day. Yet, his frustration comes from the knowledge that he is smart, creative and unappreciated. Frustrated that his genius with his hands can’t be identified by the masses. He might be a failed painter or sculptor. He is angry and cunning and has a dark sense of humour. He may have been abused as a child.”

 

Jack stops. “We have used this profile for the last 4 years and have never come close to getting a whiff of who this man is, or even whether he is a man. And ladies and gentlemen? I am sick of this monster using our city for his winter sport. We don’t know where he goes in March. There are no other places in the United States, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, England, France, Australia or the goddamn Moon that have murder patterns that fit the profile. He isn’t doing this because he cannot help it. He does this because it pleases him to ruin this city as he sees fit. Once September rolls around, he will start killing again, and using a profile that also fits that of Adolf Hitler hasn’t worked in the past and is making us look like fools once again, unable to prevent a serial killer in our own back yard.”

 

He pauses, looks down, and then looks straight at Will, over the heads of cadets, law enforcement and his own staff. “We need everything this year. This will be the last year the ripper takes this city. Forget everything you learned about the criminal mind at the academy. This man is not a usual suspect. Think creatively. If we need to terrorise this town to find him, then by god, we find him by any means. He is prolific and hungry, and we need to stop him. He kills three times a month on average, with no pattern we’ve been able to find. Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the year we find the pattern, and we end this, once and for all.”

 

* * *

 

 

He takes the (dog, he decides on dog for ease of mind) home and introduces him to the rest of the pack. They look at the dog warily, as if waiting for a punchline to a bad joke, but don’t seem particularly hostile. Eventually they relax and he lets the new dog off the lead to get to know the house. He names the dog Bruce, resisting the urge to name it Dumbo because something about it makes him think of elephants. It is probably the way it walks softly despite its large size, barely making a noise. The dog also makes him think of action movie stars with the kind of muscles got from a diet of lean protein, green smoothies and handfuls upon handfuls of steroids.

Bruce settles down on the rug in front of the unlit fire after eating a small dinner of kibble and a bit of sausage that was on the turn in the fridge and falls promptly into sleep. Will nudges him with his foot before he goes to bed, but Bruce is dead to the world, breathing softly but deeply.

 

The sun rises and brings the crispness of fall with it, that feeling that even though the temperature is the same as before, there is that special feeling that activates in your head that tells you that summer is gone, long live summer. Will takes the dogs for a morning walk among the dewdrops, and Bruce leads the pack on a long run that has Will’s chest lurching like an asthmatic running a marathon as the chill in the air confirms that autumn is here, and he is no longer cop-fit. He finally lets them run off once they hit a field that has a good two mile parabola of sight and stops to catch his breath sitting in a late summer wildflower bank. He watches Winston and Buster playfight and nip at each other as they race around, burning off all the energy that comes from their font of pure canine drive. Bruce stalks a succession of rabbits low against the ground with the patience of a saint and against all odds catches one in his ferocious teeth. As Will rises to yell at him, he drops it delicate as a kitten, and the terrified bunny runs off. Bruce seemingly loses interest immediately and trots off to regroup with the rest of the dogs.

 

In the light of day, once the troupe are back at the house, Will takes a better look at his new charge. Bruce seems to be carrying some form of injury, perhaps internal, and is covered in scars, but he is affectionate towards both Will and the other dogs and has no problems walking. He looks less strange in pure daylight, but his musculature was still indicative of some kind of birth defect or poor attempt at crossbreeding. Will felt sorry for him, but also fascinated. He calls the vet and makes an appointment for early the next day for him to take a look at Bruce, maybe take a few scans.

 

* * *

For all the days leading up to the full moon were normal, with pedantic students, doomsaying press and someone stealing his coffee, it is the night that is terrifying.

 

He is woken to see his room bathed in the golden light of the harvest moon and the sound of furniture being moved around violently. He tries his door and it won’t open. There is something blocking it, something too heavy to move. Panicking slightly but remembering his training and his own scars, he takes his gun and sits in bed with his back against the wall and hears the sounds of whining dogs, shattering glass, and a strange wet ripping howl that terrifies him to the bone. Eventually though, the door thumps, and the house goes silent, and before he can contemplate his escape, the adrenaline wears off and drags him back unwilling into sleep.

 

The memory that persists after that kind of sleep is hard to describe – a jump cut from a film comes close, but so does coming awake after general anaesthetic and a limb being gone. He is woken to the dogs howling and adrenaline pre-primed and thumping through his veins and hits go in less than half a second. He manages to climb out the window and carefully skid down the roof, dropping into a roll on the ground. The door is unlocked with no sign of forced entry. The ground floor is a mess but nothing valuable is missing. All he cannot find is some clothes from the drying rack, some old ones from when he was more built during his cop days. Most of his furniture has been rearranged to block off the stairs, and once he manages to move it to get to outside his bedroom he finds the handle wedged shut by both a chair and half of his bookcase. The bookcase is heavy, groaning under hundreds of paperbacks and criminology textbooks with rude comments in the margins. Will tries to move it back, but it won’t shift an inch. He ends up having to remove at least half the books in order to get it back into place, and still manages to wrench his back in the process.

 

Not long after he realises that Bruce is gone. He calls the sheriff’s office, reporting the break in and theft of his dog, but as Bruce wasn’t microchipped, and the ancient pair of jeans and shirt were not worth replacing, it was really more a courtesy in case the criminal happens to come along again or targets someone else in the area.

 

The loss of Bruce shouldn’t have had any impact on him. He had been part of his house for two days, and had spent a lot of it asleep. The dogs were devastated though and the latest chapter in the dog soap opera that was better than TV involved them all moping around the house like freshly dumped teenagers, alternatively being off their food and then ravenously knocking the kibble bag over to gorge themselves sick.

 

A couple of days later, Doctor Lecter’s office rings to tell him that he is back in town, and Will has first refusal on his previous appointment time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Will had only spent a small amount of time as Hannibal’s patient before Hannibal had gone away to do his mysterious summer folly. He gets lots a little on the drive over, the memory not entirely fully formed the way he remembers certain paths he’s cut through the Baltimore area like grooves in a well loved record. He arrives at his allotted time after work to see Hannibal’s broad smile through the crack in the door.

 

Will decides to make small talk first, being out of practice with therapy and talking about himself. Hannibal was more than willing to describe his jaunt – he had gone to take care of his family estate in Lithuania the previous spring. He had apologised profusely, but being the last remaining heir, and seeing as Lithuanian and EU bureaucracy were as they were, he had resigned himself be gone the whole summer. Hannibal gave this speech with the kind of gestures that assumed that Will was well up to date on his eastern European inheritance tax law and therefore in on the joke, to the point where WIll almost missed Hannibal explaining that he also went back back to become Count Hannibal Lecter the 7th (“The seventh?” All modern families are as old as each other, Will. My ancestors decided to start counting after a significant incident”).

 

Hannibal enquired about Will’s progress while he had been away, which cut the camaraderie down at the knees.

When Will had been to Hannibal back in the spring, he was sick but holding it together. The latent illness in his brain was lucky to be caught at all, the Doctors said, and he was weak as a kitten from the treatment for months. So while he was neurologically well, psychologically, there was still a lot of work to do. Will offered a weak smile after his explanation, which Hannibal returned.

“Thank you for bringing me up to speed. We shall not begin any work tonight. Can you drink on your medication? I have a bottle of Slovakian Tokaj I bought back from my travels. The farm is beautiful, just vineyards and a herd of white deer as far as the eye can see.”

They drank, and Hannibal continued to talk, letting Will nurse his small glass while he told more stories of the verdant European summer. Will, who had never been more east than Maine, could see everything in his mind’s eye.

 

The evening was conspiratory, even though Will and Hannibal were half-strangers to each other. Then there was the strangest thing - that as Will went to leave, Hannibal lingered, as if wanting to say something, but then offered his hand instead. His eyes fluttered when Will took it, like someone caught in the thrill of lust, and Will wanted to pull him in. It was inexplicable, but it was strange and magnetic. He and Hannibal shared a long look that didn’t feel like it was in any language Will knew, somehow something beyond language, and into the murky bone deep sense of instinct, like the feeling of someone watching you in an empty room.

 

He had thought a lot about that look down to its granularities. Everything about it had been dissected, in particular the heat of his hand, the open, blatant shudder of pleasure of Hannibal’s hand on his, down to the long cast of Hannibal’s eyelashes on his fine skin in the low light that were as fine as cat’s whiskers.

 

Hannibal calls him the next evening to ask him for dinner. Will wants to go, feels the opportunity slipping through his fingers, but the first death of the ripper season was discovered that day, and Jack’s crisis meetings have a habit of dragging late into the night and involving cheap pizza, something he knows as law enforcement that the ritual of late night grease is as important as the actual action plan that comes out of it. He declines, regretfully.

 

He makes it for dinner later in the week though, which leads to drinks, which leads to Hannibal looking at him open and undying and Will’s head, so clear and focused after years of murky thinking and cobwebs in romantic corners, and so he wraps his fingers in Hannibal’s silk tie and brings their faces close enough that they could pretend that the kiss was an accident, and then kisses him with purpose.

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out that spending time with Hannibal is as easy as it is a compulsion. As the evenings draw in, Hannibal’s house becomes a second home, a new groove in his life that he glides through with no problems.

 

Hannibal is an easy man to touch. Will isn’t tactile himself beyond normal confidence intervals, but he completely goes for the way Hannibal lights up when Will touches him. He loves when Will caresses his face, strokes his hair. He goes mad for when Will kisses down his chest and scrapes his beard over the soft planes of his stomach before sucking him off. He tells Will that he loves the way that Will grips his calves when he fucks him, bending him straight back and thrusting in, clenching his fist until he bruises, right where is sock garters lie. Will teases him for wearing sock garters, and bends to suck each mark on each well-muscled and furred leg. Each touch is sacred as old scars, infused with the promise of memory.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ripper season was characteristically bloody. A biology teacher is presented as an anatomy model in the corner of her classroom, complete with pop-out organs, perfectly plasticised with half her skull exposed, the other half in a rictus grin. A hunter was found by his wife in the skin of the deer he was hunting out of season, a venison pie in his hands made from his own organs.  Will is kept busy as the bodies pile up. Jack goes greyer with every press conference, every piece of damning journalism, every committee he needs to explain himself to. The Maryland police force, the full force of the FBI and every covert agency that secretly worked within the borders of the United States were tasked to capture the ripper or find even a shred of evidence before the eternal winter of discontent ended.

 

* * *

 

 

The dogs love Hannibal. Not just because he brings them sausage, though knowing his dogs that is a main part of the appeal, but every time he comes through the door Will has to bodily drag them off him, their barks friendly and excited.

He would have expected Hannibal to tolerate it at best, and voice his distaste if not, especially because most of his dogs are shedders and Hannibal’s suits are beautiful and bespoke and made of fabrics imported under plain covers going by the moans of his tailor. Hannibal instead seems to love the dogs, getting down on the floor in front of the fire to play with them, making himself at home.

 

When they make love in front of the fire on the sheepskin rug later that evening after a couple of bottles of wine, Will throws his head back in pleasure to see all the dogs lined up with their backs to him, disapproval radiating off them, as Hannibal takes him down and growls, deep in his throat. The sensation knocks any guilt out of his mind, and his eyes flutter close, and stay that way until he comes. When Hannibal flips him over to fuck him hard from behind, the dogs are gone, and Will puts the whole thing out of his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannibal announced his departure on a day where the wind tasted of the opportunity cost of spring. The cool crisp of winter, with its moody weather, leads to the sweet touch of spring, but also the promise of change. The awakening of the world, and for Baltimore, the end of the Ripper’s reign of terror.

 

Will was immediately angry. “What reason do you have to go away for six months? You cannot have another title to receive. Not even your family could be that pretentious.”

 

Hannibal sighed. “You have to trust me, Will. I have my reasons. I cannot tell you them. It is...delicate. Personal. Of great importance. Possibly of national importance, if you get my drift.”

 

Will can do nothing more than stare. “I cannot believe you are a spy, Hannibal. The cold war is over. It makes no sense.”

 

Hannibal shrugs. “And yet.”

 

Will decides that having this conversation while naked and post-coital was not something he could do. He swings both legs out of bed and swiftly begins getting dressed.

“Well, you better be prepared to call me. I’ll get an iPad so we can facetime. People make long distance work, so while I don’t like it, it won’t be like last summer, where we didn’t speak the whole time.”

 

“That won’t be possible, Will. Where I’m going…”

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Are you going to the moon? Scratch that, even the moon has connection now. That astronaut had a blog. Where on earth are you going where there’s no cell signal, no wifi, not even a fucking letter box? This is the most pathetic break up excuse I’ve ever heard. Is the book you took this from even still in print?!”

 

Hannibal throws the covers off and gets out of bed.

 

“Hannibal, I can’t be broken up with by a naked man.”

 

“Then we cannot be broken up.”

 

“Put some clothes on.”

 

“I cannot. Not if you are leaving me.”

 

“Don’t you need to put your spacesuit on so you can get back to your home planet? Or is your sense of dress a sign you need to get back to your home time. Do you need to get back to the 1950s for cocktail hour?”

 

“Will, that is cruel.”

 

“Hannibal, I do not give a shit,” he spits, and leaves.

 

Three days later, Will opened the door of his house to let the dogs out into the yard for their morning frolic to find Bruce there, staring at him calmly, while he himself is bleary eyed and sleep deprived. It takes him several minutes to believe what he sees in front of him. He approaches Bruce with one hand extended, and he noses at it, smelling him to re-establish a connection. Will finds himself smiling for the first time in three days.

 

* * *

 

This time, he did things properly. He took Bruce to the vet to be checked out and microchipped. The vet was as perplexed with his breeding as Will was. Possibly some old-world wolf species crossed with a large dog, possibly with some kind of birth defect or mutation but he couldn’t be sure without a DNA test. He declared him to be in good health despite that, and gave Will the leaflet for genetic testing to look over. It wasn’t covered by his pet insurance, so he didn’t bother. Will made the appointment to get him neutered, but then work happened, and was half way across the country, and never got round to making another one. Will had owned unneutered dogs before, back when he was younger and had some kind of male sympathy with them, but after the fighting and the marking of both his property and himself got out of control, he realised that it was best for all of them. Bruce never seemed to have that problem, he was polite with the other dogs, playing with them carefully, and fastidious in his personal grooming. He was, in fact, the cleanest dog Will had ever owned, and so he never made that follow on appointment.

 

* * *

 

 

True to his word, Hannibal didn’t call, email or write for the entire six months he was away.

 

 


	2. 20th March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greater Baltimore area flourishes once Ripper season is cautiously declared closed.

The greater Baltimore area flourishes once Ripper season is cautiously declared closed. It is far from a relief at the FBI - congress has demands and there are to be changes in leadership as heads will roll, but the city and its civilian population finally return, blinking into the sunlight. For all the terror, it seems that the common enemy has revitalised the community spirit. Crime, excluding ripper related incidents, is at its lowest for 50 years. Generally, in the summer months, Baltimore flourishes.

 

Will takes the dogs to the new dog park on Alana’s recommendation. They have a not-quite-date there, Alana’s dog Applesauce and his gang of miscreants making more progress in friendship than their stultified picnic managed. The sexual tension is there, he likes her as a person and respects her professionality, but when she reaches for his hand he has to let go jerk out of the way and reject her pass. She smiles the smile of the disappointed, and he finds himself spilling it all out to her in his defense. She is shocked initially, first that he and Hannibal had had an affair in the first place, mostly because she didn’t think that Will would have been able to keep a secret like that. He catches himself getting soppy, saying dramatic things about love and loss and betrayal and how he isn’t yet quite over it. Bruce, who has been hanging out under their bench lurking for scraps rather than enjoying the new sights and smells of the dog park, noses his hand, and Will pets him reassuringly.

 

As they go to leave, he loses Bruce momentarily. One moment he’s leading the pack through the crowd of other dogs tearing about, and the next he is gone, a grey blur across the green grass. He chases after him, but sees nothing. A nude man wanders past in the distance, just on the edge of his vision and for a second Will swears it is Hannibal and his heart leaps, just for a second. When he takes a closer look, there is no man, and Bruce is galloping back towards him, barking joyously.

 

They have a great summer. He and Alana visit the dog park regularly, and their friendship blossoms. He gives a series of summer lectures that are well received, and receives a clean bill of health from his neurologist. His recovery is said to be remarkable, with no lasting damage. He spends time with the team at the BAU as part of his celebration and resolution to not let this opportunity slide, becoming friendlier and consulting on cases by day, and having friendly drunken ripper conspiracy theory discussions on Friday nights. He even goes as far as kissing Brian Zeller when feeling full of dutch courage, but decides not to pursue it.

 

Late summer has an unexpected cold snap. One day everything was green, humid and lush, with music in the park and children playing in the streets, and the next the trees have turned to ash and fire, and the world seems to wither quickly and die. The city starts to pull in on itself again, as if the lack of sunshine is the talisman that calls the ripper back to their lives. Again, Jack gives his speech to a crowd that is more press than criminologists, this time sounding tired and defeated rather than determined.

 

To Will’s great dismay, on the night of the full moon, a year after he first came into his life, Bruce woke him near midnight and looked him straight in the eye the way dogs do when they want to tell you something serious. The next morning the door was left ajar, and he was gone.

  
  


Hannibal was already back, according to Alana, when the ripper’s first kill was announced. He hadn’t rung, and instead Will threw himself into his work, determined to finally crack the case. Five years of data, of missed clues, surely should be enough to finally catch the bastard. The whole team were run ragged, exhausted quickly and their summer forged friendship slipping and fraying.

 

Will blamed that, and tiredness, and the general sense of defeat that permeated every facet of winter Baltimore society, for his going to Hannibal after the third body was found. Hannibal opened the door, let him in, and took him to bed without a word.

 

* * *

 

They weren’t officially back together, if they had ever been together officially at all. Will supposed that Alana knowing was a sign that it wasn’t just a secret affair to him. They were instead in that liminal place, a mid-point in the rite of relationship, where acts were committed but the ritual was not yet completed.

 

Things, nevertheless, were different. The passion was more desperate, more cruel than it had been before the summer. Their bedroom activities were more experimental, more rough. They talked less, as if the argument from March was still their last proper discussion.

 

It was after another trying day, when they were lying in bed in sheer exhaustion after a night of rich food and hard debauchery, the kind that made your teeth ache with how good it was, when Will discovered a new scar on Hannibal’s neck. It was small, a tiny incision and just a slight puckering of the skin, but beneath it there was a small hard lump. It felt exactly like the microchips that he felt in his pet’s scruffs.

 

He considered asking Hannibal about it then and there, but the conversation would be too awkward. The potential reasons for it went round and round in his mind as the semi-darkness dragged him down into sleep. Is Hannibal into some kind of 24/7 BDSM relationship where he is someone’s dog? For six months of the year? What other reason would anyone have to have a microchip inserted? It is too small to be a medical implant, and in the wrong place. And It was definitely a surgical incision, rather than a piece of shrapnel. He instantly felt bad - he had so shot down the idea that Hannibal was a spy, but if anything was evidence of spycraft, it was this. Government secrets on tiny chips beneath the skin, easily moved through airports not looking for RFID chips but instead bullets and semtex.

 

It was while preparing for a special seminar on the patterns of serial killers that the special patterns swirling around his brain coalesced into an idea that would not let go. Thankfully, in the modern age, a whim can be entertained in less than 5 minutes, whether good or bad. A click on ebay and a security number for a credit card, and Will could satisfy his suspicions.

 

Will had always thought that the reason he slept well at Hannibal’s was the rich food and vigorous exercise, and so he was shocked one night when he see’s Hannibal spiking his drink with powder in a twist of baking parchment. Hannibal used sleight of hand so deftly that there would have been no way Will would have spotted it if he hadn’t seen the hidden part of the action reflected in the gleaming chrome of the toaster.

Spycraft, he tells himself. Nevertheless, he drinks water half of the evening, discreetly pouring drips of wine away into a plant pot. When Hannibal goes to get the next course he switches glasses with Hannibal, and drinks deeply, smiling over the rim, when Hannibal returns with the main course plates of fat venison steaks in a gleaming reduction.

 

Hannibal passes out the moment his head hits the pillow. Will waits no time, and retrieves his purchase, a small luridly pink plastic ring with a cheap LCD screen. Holding it over Hannibal’s neck, he presses the button, holding his breath and keeping his finger over the tiny speaker to suppress the sound of the confirmatory beep. The number that flashes up is foreign, meaningless, designed to tell him nothing. He hides the ring in his briefcase, and goes to sleep next to Hannibal’s sleeping form, heart beating with the power of the thrill of guilt.

He plugs the machine into the computer when he arrives in the office. It came with software that automatically uploads the number to the database, but Will ignored it, then panicked that he’d just uploaded state secrets to the national database of missing animals.

 

Ten minutes later, while he was still trying to undo the upload, his phone rings. He expects it to be the CIA, asking pertinent questions and preparing the extraordinary rendition plane, but in fact it is the vet calling him to say that a microchip matching Bruce’s had just been flagged.

 

* * *

 

It takes Will days for the shock to subside. He still takes wine when it is given to him, even though he knows now that he sleeps well because his sleep is adulterated. He does not want to call attention to Hannibal that he might know something more than he should. Spy novels were never his preference, but he had inhaled more than his fair share on trashy holidays and long layovers in strange airports.

 

Will knows he should do something, anything. Speak to Jack, call in an anonymous tip to the CIA, call interpol, post something online for the NSA to find. Later that week though, he dumps the wine down the sink in the tiny downstairs bathroom while freshening up, before pouring himself another glass from the bottle in the kitchen as Hannibal prepares food. Hannibal raises an exquisitely sculpted eyebrow at him, and Will drinks deeply. “I have had a hell of a day, and its Friday. I’m in the mood to let it all go.”

Hannibal’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I would love to join you, my dear Will, but sadly I have early patients tomorrow. However, please go ahead. I do love it when you lose control.”

 

After sex, which was naturally excellent, he feigns sleep. It is difficult, with his heart feeling like its going to explode. Hannibal checks that he is unconscious, and obviously satisfied by Will’s unresponsive acting, gets out of bed and leaves the house. Will waits in bed, out of sight yet right where he is supposed to be, and when he hears Hannibal come back a couple of hours later and checks he is still sleeping the sleep of the drugged, he then silently follows him down into the basement.

 

* * *

 

A woman is lying on the counter. She looks like she’s been torn apart by a vicious animal.

 

He wishes he had his gun, but he had not expected such a show. He is barefoot and in pajamas and utterly disarmed.

“Why do you have my dog’s microchip in your neck?” he blurts out, edging closer to the fire axe that hangs on the wall.

Hannibal stares at him. “I’m standing over a dead body and this is what you want to ask me?” he asks, incredulously. “And please stop moving.”

Will stops and shrugs. “I have worked out that you’re the ripper. But why are you also Bruce?”

 

The basement is lit by warm Italian fittings and a single, ugly flourescent strip. The effect gives Hannibal an otherworldly look, his usual strong angles erased by the strange lighting. There is not a single shadow in the room to hide in, and so Will stands up straight, as if unafraid.

 

Hannibal sighs as if Will is a particular disappointment. “Occam’s Razor, Will, tells us that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. How do I have your dog’s microchip in my neck? Why am I standing over a dead body? You must have heard the rumours. My family have been cursed for as long as history can remember. We count ourselves from the first generation as superiors and predators to the surrounding sheep. My father was a strong, savage beast who terrorised his local town. He took my mother as payment for a debt and turned her, and my sister and I were born strong and mewling puppies in this world to live as freaks with power for our sins. My sister could not take it, the secrecy, the life we were destined to lead, the hunger. She succumbed to those that hunt us, and I was unable to stop them or convince her that our curse is worth enduring.

For her memory, I gave up our traditional life, and instead live for six month as your pet, and six months as your lover, and I am happy. This is how it is. I have lusts, but I found that I prefer to kill as a human. My blood lust is ironically milder as the wolf. I also prefer that any kills I make are not using its smaller brain, it lacks the proper neurons for true pleasure. When the moon is at its strongest, it pulls me between my two forms, making me a deformed wolf and a mild human. My true nature, you see, is that of a killer.

 

Will looks at him blankly. “Werewolves are not Occam’s razor, Hannibal. Occam’s razor is, I don’t know, you killing my dog and having his chip implanted to get close to me. Its you being a psychopath and deranged killer. Not, not you being a cursed European nobleman who spends half a year fucking me and the other half begging for treats.”

 

Hannibal looks affronted. “I never begged, Will.”

 

The blood on the floor feels sticky under Will’s bare feet. He wished he’d put shoes on. The whole thing feels like a farce.

 

“It is a beautiful world, Will”, Hannibal remarks, as if casually at brunch, rather than holding a woman’s entrails in one hand and a knife in the other. “You should see it through the eyes of the wolf.”

“When I first came to you as a wolf I did not mean to. I was hunting through the countryside, but your town was founded by those that hunt us, and pockets of their magic still lies in the foundation stones of the town. The old road had me, and I was sure to die had someone not stopped and taken pity on me. Once I was within the town limits, I was trapped as a wolf, unable to turn back. While outside I can change at will, it is only when the full moon nearest the equinox is in the sky can I break out of the trap and return to human form and make my escape. There is no stronger magic than wolf magic during the time of change, even the magic in the bones of a forgotten old town is no match for it.”

“When I next turned, I found that even as the wolf, I missed you. So I decided to subject myself to the trap so as to be by your side.”

 

He stretches his neck, and finally puts down the weapon. Will becomes acutely aware that while he is unarmed, and knows deep in his bones that Hannibal probably never is. Quick as a flash, Hannibal turns out the light and drops. With only the glow of the stairwell to guide him, Will runs, feet slipping on blood and polished granite. The sound of four legs rather than two pursues him. He is tackled to the floor, and powerful limbs wrestle him into a submissive position. A claw, thick and sharper than knives, digs into his soft belly and he feels in nerves not designed to feel like this a sense of slipping as his entrails spill over the floor. Other claws pierce his arms and legs, ugly jagged cuts that carve scratches on the bone. The world goes white and soft as he loses blood, and he feels Hannibal turn back into human form whilst on top of him, kissing his neck, nuzzling him. Whispering that it will be all over soon. That he just needs to hang on.

 

* * *

 

The first moon is hard. He is conscious enough through it to feel the change. It feels like dying all over again, nerves finding new purpose that he would never have wanted to feel. His shoulder joints crack and burn as they reform into powerful front legs. His hands shrivel in front of his eyes and sprout glossy red-grey fur. He grows new vertebrae, feels his spine stretch and pop and arch painfully, and his internal organs seem to scream as they rearrange themselves. It is agony beyond even the most violent language. He hears Hannibal make sounds that he can only barely understand, a promise it gets easier spoke in English while it still mattered, and a whine that says the same in wolf once it did not. He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror set low on the floor for the purpose of witnessing his transformation, on completing the ritual. A new-world wolf, sleek and proud, pants at him in exertion. The world is alive through enhanced senses, first the colour and heat dimentions of scent, the rest compensating for the dulling by changing into something new and suitable. His legs burn to run. Hannibal bends down to look at him, their reflections in the mirror strange but fitting as Hannibal smiles with pride. They look like a fine pair of predators.

 

They make a pact through a mutual understanding of the limited time they can spend in the same form, especially while Will’s morphic bonds are still weak and prone to collapse. They cannot be together the way they were while they are out of phase, and so a deal is forged: when Hannibal is a wolf he returns to the wolf trap and is Will Graham’s pet. When Will is a wolf, Hannibal lets him run free through the concrete jungle and verdant paradise and teaches him the ways of the ethical monster. As Will’s powers grow, his ability to stay in one form longer allows them a relationship, of sorts. It is different from before, but it is truthful at its heart. Wolves, Hannibal explains, have no need to lie.

  
He finds that Hannibal was right after all. Wolves do not need words, and even if they had them they would be worthless. The world is indescribably beautiful through the eyes of the wolf, and with Hannibal, he runs through it, as if free.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was a 'dark little werewolf piece' and honestly, it ate my brain, despite never previously being into werewolves before. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> [cicaklah.tumblr.com](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


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